


Just for the Thrill

by AnthemsReturn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, trigger for bombs and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24688213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnthemsReturn/pseuds/AnthemsReturn
Summary: Some kill for a reason. Some do it just for the thrill.





	Just for the Thrill

Nothing much ever happened in this town, and that was why this town was exactly where he wanted to be. Today would be eventful, he could feel it, and there's nothing like having a good meal to start off a great day. 

Minding the speed limit and low light, he pulled up in his beat-up, rusty red Volkswagen and the wheels squeaked as he turned into the parking spot which had unofficially become his. The light of dawn would still be a few hours away, but with the hours he works, it's technically his lunch break. He didn't even bother changing out of his work shirt before heading over, "Mike" embroidered across his left breast pocket. He's just glad he and the guy who had the shirt before him have the same name, he loved to joke. 

He walked into the diner, smiling and whistling an old tune from somewhere that he can't remember that moment, greeting those inside with a small wave and grin that showed off his one gold canine tooth. Sitting down, he leaned back in the booth and ignored the menu in favor of ordering his usual. 

His coffee was the first to arrive, and he cupped his gloved hands around it for warmth, not bothering with any creams or sugars in favor of sipping the bitter brew as it was. He smiled around the rim, eyes glancing out the window at the sparse twinkling lights in the sky above, casting smears of light across the glass. He'd always loved the nighttime, and he'd always loved coming here at night. The sights and smells of this old place bring him back. He could practically hear the steam rising from his mug, even over the roaring laughs of the nearby patrons in the faded red and yellow booths. He thanked a waitress in a bright pink fifties style uniform dress as she set his plate on the dingy table in front of him, chock full of pancakes, sausages, hashbrown, you-name-it; breakfast here is served twenty-four-seven, the very hours this place is open for business, and with him working the night shift he appreciates a good middle-of-the-night hearty meal. His stomach can attest to that. Raising a hand to riffle his thin, muddy brown hair, his ruddy eyes caught on a passing car and he smiled at the signs of life passing by. 

Mike could hear the buzzing of the neon lights out front along with the whistling wind barely able to be heard through the stained plexiglass windows, howling through the back streets of the city, and the chef chatting amicably with the wait staff as his spatula pinged off the old but clean grill. Looking around, he saw the few booths occupied with young college students up for a late-night and other night owls in general laughing and conversing without care. 

This place makes him feel at home, despite having moved several states over to Nebraska after the divorce. This is the one and only place where he can relax and the pressures of the world can't burden him. Nowhere else could he feel more comfortable than the old rock-n-roll diner on Third street. He comes here alone, keeps the place to himself, his own slice of heaven. By now he feels like a piece of the history of this place, despite only living there for three years. They'd been the best three years he'd ever had in his otherwise mundane forty-two. 

As he sat musing, relaxing in the comfortably chaotic, friendly atmosphere, Jenny, a waitress here and his long-time friend, came over to his table, the soft click of her heels against the yellowing linoleum and the swish of the heavy material of her apron as familiar as ever. He looked up with a bright, cheery smile, only for his eyes to widen at the unnatural look on her face. It was half-twisted, her strong features mauled by fear, and she stood stalk straight with glossy eyes, downcast, and hidden by her dyed-green bangs. 

"...Jenny? Are you okay, doll?" 

On her platter, balanced precariously on the tips of her fingers, was a single, faded envelope. Gulping loud enough for him to hear over the chatter in the diner, she let out a shaky breath and bit down on her trembling lip to avoid letting a word slip. She set the envelope in front of him, then slowly pivoted and solemnly walked to a table in the corner, sitting down and putting her head in her arms, her body finally racking with silent tears. He knew better than to make a scene. Jenny's a strong woman, from her neon green-dyed hair to her razor-sharp nails and metal band tattoos; he's never seen her cry in public. She always stays strong for everyone else. Something was very, very wrong. And he had a strong feeling that damned envelope contained the source of her fear. 

He regarded it warily, the faded yellow paper and his own name scrawled in wine red lettering reminding him of something, something he'd read in the news, but he couldn't remember what. So he picked up his unused butter knife and cut into the envelope, his eyes scanning each line first reservedly before his eyes began to track every word, throat going dry and amber eyes blown wide. 

The laughter of the other patrons were drumbeats echoing in his skull, the noises in the kitchen screeching and scraping as his head pounded, the buzzing of the lights and pushing wind opening the floodgates on his sanity as he read to the very last line of the dual thank you and apology letter, simply reading, "Cover your ears." 

The vehicles raced down the street, sirens pierced the air with loud cries, and ambulances followed behind knowing there would be no one left to save. More and more police cars pulled into the half deformed parking lot, cars twisted and burned, most still alight, smoldering in tribute to the lives that were lost. The diner was gone, not a single wall still standing, or even a single wall not blown to bits along with everyone inside. The stench of rotting flesh, ripe and pungent, filled the air, carried by the wind to the restaurants down the block as officers sectioned off the scene of the crime and people fled, some crying, some not able to muster a single tear. 

\--- 

Two officers surveyed the scene grimly. They'd been on the case for so long their emotional investment had run dry. 

"It's a shame; I liked that diner." Her voice held false cheer and her eyes were haunted, visions of her own death dancing behind the pale blue orbs. 

"Cait…" The gruff voice cautioned gently. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I go-- had gone there a lot. Good thing I was on duty today, huh?" She joked lamely, lifting her arm to elbow his side before thinking better of it and letting it drop to her side limply. 

He stayed quiet, merely adjusting his collar so he'd have more room to breathe, not that he wanted to with the stench still permeating the air. 

She sighed morosely. "Greg… we'll catch this bastard. I swear it. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't live our lives. 'Risk' is just another word for 'opportunity,' right?" Pep was born in her lungs and died in her throat, strangling her words. 

Greg's eyes cast downwards at where he was just starting to be able to see the tips of his toes and ran his fingers through his short, thinning, long-gone-grey hair. He forced out a humorless laugh, the action chipping away at his facade of melancholy and twisting the knife in his heart that refuses to let blood. "... Yeah." 

Cait took in a deep breath through her nose and let it out quickly through her mouth, chapstick-coated lips parting to release the air into the winter chill. "Well, anyway, I still say this is a case of a serial killer and not just a 'bomb-happy maniac' like the media is so quick to rant about." 

He nodded tersely, looking ahead at the scene. "But why an entire building for one person that fits their-- ya know." He waved a stubby hand vaguely through air. "Target kill?" 

Cait's head turned to look up at him, choppy blond hair blowing into her eyes. Reaching up with a gloved hand, she batted the strands away and peered at him, considering. "The thrill?" 

Greg's lip twitched wryly, considering, and he turned and motioned for her to walk with him towards the scene. They passed gruesome wreckage that the forensics team was currently analyzing as the firefighters had just put out the last flaming corpse so they could do their job. He just replied. "Yeah, it usually is just for the thrill, huh." 


End file.
